“By what means should I, as a Christian traveller, communicate my personal identity and spiritual allegiance?” I could…do some airport-lounge preaching….The age-old device of carrying a Bible larger than a cabin bag is trickier in these days of electronic reading…The prominent wearing of crosses is not my thing, neither would I normally go down the emblazoned garment line, as if “by their T-shirts you shall know them.”

While immensely thankful for the benefits of modern travel, there are elements of it that are not in the first rank of Walker enjoyments. I tend toward dislike of the experience of being herded and managed, with even the temperature of the environment sometimes being adjusted in order to prompt appropriate dispositions. And there are, of course, those elements of being in confined spaces with a bundle of other sinners which tend to prompt more carnal reactions.

And so it was with that combination of weariness and amusement that I surveyed the departure lounge at Newark airport a few days ago on my way home from a delightful time of fellowship and ministry. All human life, if not quite there, was certainly well on the way to being healthily represented. Looking about me, I was struck by the prominent ways and means in words and in deeds by which various of my fellow wanderers were proclaiming their personal identity and spiritual allegiance.

There were Orthodox Jews, the coats and hats and hair raising their flags of affiliation. There were flamboyant metrosexuals, all pastel shades and skinny jeans and overcooked poses. There were the Disgruntled, those sour-faced regular travellers who can predict – and do, to anyone who makes eye contact – all that will be slow or go wrong with frightening accuracy. There were Hindu ladies, their dress and make-up speaking of their commitments. Sikhs and Muslims rubbed shoulders in their religious uniforms. There were the Angry, like the chap who uttered a string of distinctly audible curses for a good ten or fifteen minutes after being subjected to a patdown, making sure that we all know that we are in the presence of Those Not To Be Messed With. There were the extravagant homosexuals, all loud giggles and shouty comments, hyper-camping for the benefit of those around them. Here are the Nervous, who do not know where to go or what to do, agitated and antsy, asking everyone the same questions repeatedly. Over there are the languid Rich, dressed up to the nines, oozing through the crowds and the barriers when the call goes out for the privileged few who get to enter the flying can ten minutes or so before the rest of us. Make way, too, for the harried and active Rich, in their well-cut suits and with their high-end luggage, rushing from their last lucre-producing meeting to their next one, and trampling all who are in their path. Over there is that decorated beast, the Tattooed Brit, looking for all the world like a thug of the first water, but possibly one of the most pleasant and cheerful individuals who will board the pla . . . no, my mistake, it was the thug version. Watch out for the Gorgeous Woman, who has gone to more effort for this flight than most would for their wedding days, dressed and manipulated from head to toe to catch the male eye. There is our New Age Friend, burdened by weighty beads and floaty veils, rainbow hues no doubt fending off all manner of ethereal bad news. You begin to wonder what the social media footprint of the gathering might be, as heat and hunger and the passing of time begin to prompt increasing agitation, what vapid online meanderings or noxious electronic effluent rises from the horde as we sit and wait.

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